In a Kingdom by a Sea
by sbgrrl
Summary: Set in S2. A string of disappearances bring Dean and Sam Winchester to the Oregon Coast in the dead of winter. In trying to uncover what's been happening to people, one of them finds out firsthand what's behind it while the other must fight to keep his brother from vanishing.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Written for spn_summergen on LJ, for Kris Atta. Last story in fandom, methinks.  
_

_December 22, 2006  
Depoe Bay, Oregon_

Brutal wind whipped against his face and tasted of salt and wet from the sea crashing against the shore. Ahead of him, she drifted slowly, her pace steady and deliberately away from him. Her movements were fluid and graceful, like she was part of the sea herself. She left no footprints. He felt like he was in a dream, there but not truly there at all. In the back of his mind, the part that was only partially working, he knew he had to be sleeping. It couldn't be real because she was no longer his, hadn't been for years. The connection remained between them, he felt it every day. That feeling was stronger now than ever. He dreamed of her often, but never quite like this. He began to dream walk faster, his own limbs loose and wobbly in the sand. He felt like a puppet on a string.

As he drew closer to her, he saw her dark dress was loose fitting and flowy, the extra material waved like a flag. Her hair spun and whirled in the wind, black locks shone with a hint of blue. Everything was blue, dim, actually. It was night, he realized and she had always looked so beautiful by the moonlight. She turned slightly, but did not face him fully. He swore he saw the curve of a smile on her lips before she turned again and continued her path away from him. He couldn't help but follow, had never been able to do anything else, and now felt as if she had him on a string. She was his everything. He'd follow her to the end of the earth, beyond if it were possible.

The water lapped at his ankles, numbed his feet quickly. He was so close now. He extended a hand to touch her shoulder. He needed to touch her, his lost love who he missed so. It was all he wanted. He felt detached from it as if he were watching someone else's hand moving slow and uncoordinated. The hand was covered in age spots, wrinkled beyond recognition. That wasn't right. He wasn't an old man, was he? Dreams were like that, he reasoned, but when his fingertips brushed against her it was as real as anything. Her skin was cool and damp, smooth and supple. Still young and beautiful, as she would always remain.

Water now lapped at his thighs. It chilled him to the bone, impeded his already sluggish motion. He only knew he couldn't stop, not with her so close. He loved her too much to let discomfort stop him, but the pleading began in his stomach, bubbled up through him like a live thing and he could not stop it. Desperate to make her stop moving away from him, the words fell from his lips.

"Baby, wait," he said, "please wait for me."

At his words, she turned fully at last and his dream world flipped upside down. The soft, warm love he'd felt, the anticipation of being with her again, vanished and in its place was stark horror.

He'd been so wrong, it wasn't her. It had never been her. It wasn't even a woman. He gasped and recoiled slightly. The hair around the equine features was tangled with sand and seaweed and the teeth were large, sharp and gleaming. He yelled, tried to yank his hand away and couldn't. The thing, not her not her, lunged for him and wrapped its arms around him, squeezed air from his lungs. In that fraction of a second, he realized it was not a dream. Real. He was pulled deeper into the icy water and no matter how he struggled he could not break free. His screams were swallowed by the wind, never made it to the shoreline, somehow so far away. Intense pain bit at his shoulder, his side, muscles and flesh shredded. His blood blackened the frothing water.

The thing submerged and took him with it.

* * *

_February 20, 2007_  
Cannon Beach, Oregon

Dean hated Oregon. It came a close second to Florida as far as states he never wanted to visit again, yet there he was miserable, damp and cold. He could lie to himself and say that seasonal affective disorder had set in the second they'd crossed the border from Idaho, but that illusion wouldn't last even in his own secret thoughts. He doubted Sam had forgotten the last time they'd been in this godforsaken state only a couple of months ago; he'd been infected with a nasty demon virus and Dean had made it clear when there was no miracle cure coming that he'd rather go down with Sam than continue on alone. The memory, like so many of theirs, wasn't a good one.

He stared out the diner window into the gloom. It looked like early evening; it was only noon. For a change, he wasn't that hungry. The stop for food felt like habit. It all felt like habit lately, and he was weary to the bone. Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. The thing was, he wasn't sure what the worst of it was. The hunting and never seeming to make progress, the looming problem with Sam's weird … abilities or the weight he still carried about Dad telling him he was probably going to have to kill his own brother were all strong contenders. He didn't need a damned psychology degree to know that. Somewhere deep down, he knew saving people still mattered. Somewhere else deep down, he didn't think there was a point.

"Hey," Sam said, as if he were just joining Dean, not coming from the restroom. He slid into the booth, knees knocked against Dean's.

"Watch it, Sasquatch," Dean said.

"You're still in a bad mood, then." Sam fiddled with the small dessert menu board, flipped a few of the laminated pages. "Must be low blood sugar."

He knew Sam knew his mood had nothing to do with blood sugar. It was written all over his damned face, that half hopeful, half sorry expression Sam whipped out often. That was another thing Dean was tired of. He didn't dignify Sam's remark with a response other than to curl his lip a little and return his attention to the window while they waited for their food.

"Refill, hon?"

Dean glanced at Kim the waitress and nodded. Coffee was the only way he was keeping warm. He'd been through nearly every state, but none of them chilled like those in the Pacific Northwest, especially on the coastline. It was a pervasive coolness. Even with moderate winter temperatures, the dampness seeped into a person and wouldn't relent. He wrapped his hands around the cup as soon as she withdrew the pot.

"You?"

"Thanks," Sam said and slid his cup a fraction of an inch toward the edge of the table with a half-smile.

Kim practically melted into a maternal puddle of goo right there on the floor. Dean got the hot ones, Sam got the ones that wanted to hug and squeeze and protect. Both sometimes ended up getting them free dessert. In Sam's case, that was literal. In Dean's, it was more of a creative interpretation. That he didn't even have interest in either so much anymore was a huge mental red flag. He just didn't know what to do about it. There was no figurative magic button to push to put things back the way they were before, and that was what he truly, deep down, wanted.

"We're going to need something to break soon," Sam said.

Dean blinked for a second, wondered if Sam had somehow developed the ability to read his mind. As if Sam's regular freakiness wasn't unsettling enough. It was only when he looked up and saw his brother was peering at his laptop intently that he realized Sam was just talking shop.

"So basically we've got a day or two to find this thing before someone else disappears," Dean said.

"If we're lucky. There hasn't been a fixed number of days between disappearances, or a definite distance in the migration north, just approximately a month, and approximately sixty miles. We're right on target, but there are lots of little resort towns along the coast."

The deaths and disappearances had started down coast. None of the victims had any obvious similarities. A high school girl in Florence. An eighty-year-old man in Depoe Bay. A middle-aged bank executive at Tillamook. Whatever this thing was, it didn't discriminate in its victims. It took what it could get. To be honest, he wasn't one hundred percent sure there was an it. Sometimes tragic accidents actually were accidents.

"Are we even sure there's something here to hunt?" Dean took a swallow of coffee, flicked his eyes away from Sam to avoid seeing the inevitable hurt look.

"I dunno, Dean. I know it's vague. I just have a feeling."

"A feeling feeling, or a, you know, _feeling_?" Dean asked the question that had been in the back of his head for days. The taste of it was as sour as the look Sam gave him. "Sorry."

"It's not like before. It's not about …" Sam paused as Kim returned and plonked their plates down in front of them, waited and watched her leave before picking up again. "It's not about the demon that killed Dad, or my _whatever_. It's just a basic monster. There's something. There's a commonality with these people, I, we, just haven't figured it out yet."

"Yeah." Dean halfway wanted to believe that. He did. "Okay."

Not only was this case in Oregon, if it was anything, it was definitely a water monster of some sort. Water monsters were always messy to deal with, and very rarely easy. The sheer number of possible types made them a challenge, and even after they pinned down their cryptid, fighting something that could disappear into the sea wasn't fun. All three victims had been last seen heading toward the ocean, though Dean didn't know why anyone would do that right now.

The pattern that had brought Sam and him by association to Cannon Beach wasn't an obvious one to the untrained eye, which was why there hadn't been any civilian chatter about it. Marine deaths weren't uncommon on coastlines like this, especially during certain times of the year. The ocean was choppy and harsh in the strong winter winds, could kill easily in a very short period if anyone were to get caught up in it. So far, that was all they had. When they were connected to the ocean rather than a river or lake, as it seemed to be here, it was almost not worth the effort. The pool was too big to go splashing around in.

Of course, Dean couldn't honestly say the thought that this was a waste of time was legitimate or if it was a symptom of him not wanting to be here, doing this, anymore. He felt a little like he was only hunting anymore under duress. Not that Sam was guilting him into anything, it was more an internal panicked feeling that he needed to be near his brother. And if his brother wanted to exorcise his freaky demons and the premonitions that came with them by hunting evil things, then that was what Dean would do too, until. Until what Dad had told him either came true or didn't.

"Dean," Sam said, voice sharp.

Dean straightened and blinked. "What?"

"Are you okay, man? It's not like you to not wolf your food down the second it's in front of you."

He looked at the burger with no appetite, picked up one of the fries and shoved it his mouth with a pointed glare. Sam, in turn, lifted his hands as if fending off an attack and shrugged. Dean saw the dark, haunted concern in his eyes, though. Like everything else in his life, there wasn't much he could do about that, so he simply shoved more fries in his mouth and made as many disgusting sounds as he could while he was at it. The fries were actually pretty good, which surprised him. Food was just food lately. Sam seemed to relax, at any rate. Small victory in a huge war, but Dean would take it.

"I figure we should check out the beach after lunch. Maybe we'll be able to find something concrete to go on," Sam said. "Maybe check out Ecola State Park too. We should be able to scope out a wide area from the bluffs, catch sight of something in the water."

"Mmmph," Dean said.

Maybe this and maybe that was no way to go about a hunt. Sam had a feeling. Well, so did Dean, and surprise, surprise, his and Sam's feelings didn't match up at all. Dean's was one of impending doom, but it hardly seemed worth mentioning. His probably wasn't related to the hunt. He'd had it for months, after all, with no end in sight. No end he could see, only knew was there as sure as he knew he should be dead and his Dad should be alive.

Sam finally took the hint, though, and stopped trying to engage him in conversation. They ate in silence and the ambient diner noise from the handful of other customers and the staff. There was comfort in it, small town diners a close second to the Impala to evoke a feeling of home, and how jacked was that? Dean knew it was, knew that it was all because of how their father had handled things. But he still missed the guy, hated knowing Dad was at least partly to blame for the dysfunction of their lives now.

By the time they were done eating or pretending to eat and Kim had delivered the dessert they hadn't ordered – a piece of strawberry shortcake for each of them – the sun had miraculously come out. More accurately, the cloud cover had thinned just enough so that the gloom was slightly brighter and it no longer looked like it would rain at any moment. It didn't mean Dean had any real desire to take a stroll along a windy, cold beach. They'd get damp, rain or no rain, as the strong wind would kick up ocean spray. He turned up his collar before sliding from the booth, a preemptive attempt to ward off the clammy weather.

"You know, if you want I can do this alone," Sam said quietly as he fished out five bucks for a tip. He plopped the cash on the table and scooped up the laptop, held it out. "You can take the laptop back to the room, see if you can figure out what I can't seem to."

Despite his reluctance to let Sam out of his sight these days, the offer tempted him. It being a resort town during off season, they'd managed to get a room on the beach. In fact, they could see most of the sand and surf from there. He thought about mentioning that to Sam. Both of them could stay inside. He could play with the binoculars while Sam geeked on the computer. Dean did not enjoy sand in his boots. Wet sand was even worse. That was a petty argument, and he knew he was going to have to suck it up and ignore the lure of the room and its baseboard heater. Chances were before this hunt was over, wet sand in his socks and in between his toes was going to be the least of his troubles. Dean shook his head.

"No, it's okay. We should stick together. I don't want to drag your sorry ass off the bottom of the ocean."

Sam smiled, the relief in his eyes as evident as the lingering concern.

Dean remained unconvinced it was worth the effort to comb the beach, until they actually neared it – it was deserted – and heard the shouting. It was a woman's voice and it wasn't the kind of screaming he associated with those he heard from people being chased by physical monsters. There was emotional terror in it, though. He and Sam broke into a run at the same time, honed in on the distressed calls.

"Eddie! Edgar!"

Sam reached her first where she ran at the edge of the beach, her hair whipping this way and that. She was young, Sam's age. She wore a uniform under a large knit, ugly sweater, looked like she worked for one of the larger chain resorts lining the whole beach. Her face wore an expression of concern that would ratchet to panic with very little prompting.

"Ma'am," Sam said. "What's wrong? Who's Edgar?"

_Please let Edgar be a dog,_ Dean thought, _please let it be a stupid Shih Tzu._

"My son. Eddie. He's out of school today, sick with the flu," she gasped. She clutched a hand at the base of her throat, fingers twisted into the starched collar of her uniform. She straightened suddenly, squaring her shoulders. "I can't afford the time away, not during the off season. I had to bring him with me."

"Lady, we ain't here to judge you," Dean said, and thought of all the places their father hauled them. "How long ago did you notice he was gone?"

"I went in to scrub the bathroom. I told him to stay right there. I couldn't have been in there more than a few minutes. When I came out to the room, he was gone and the patio door was open."

"How long ago?" Sam asked again, voice all soft and caring to counter Dean's gruffness. "And how old's your son?"

"Ten minutes, maybe. He's … he's almost six." Her lip started to tremble, and whatever strength she'd garnered to defend herself against their potential condemnation oozed right out of her.

Jesus, six. She'd been a kid when she had her kid. The detachment Dean had felt with this case before vanished for pure, cold anger. He hoped this was just a case of a boy wandering off, but his gut told him otherwise. His gut said this was the perfect time for a new victim with their water cryptid, and like hell if he was going to let some innocent child die on his watch. He glanced at Sam and his wide eyes, all empathy and concern, and his brother still seemed child-like sometimes despite everything they'd seen and done. He knew he projected half of that.

But no one was dying on Dean's watch. Not today, not any day.

"He couldn't have gone far," Dean murmured to Sam.

"He wouldn't have to." Sam's head swung toward the water, eyes flicking north and south along the shoreline. "It's broad daylight, but there's no one close enough."

There was some fool running along the barren stretch of sand, a good three quarters of a mile away and headed the opposite direction. Dean sighed.

"You go right, I'll go left."

Sam nodded and took off. Dean made to follow suit, but a hand tugging at his elbow stopped him. He turned, half expected the girl to be their monster. Her face, streaked with tears and grotesque in her fear, was wholly human.

"I don't even know you," she said.

"I get it. I'm Dean. Me and my brother – Sam – we just want to help, okay? I swear, we just want to find your boy for you." Dean put out a hand, but didn't touch her. "What's your name?"

"Patrice. Should I … shouldn't I call the police?"

"Let's see if we can track him down first, okay, Patrice? He's probably real close."

She shook her head. "He won't … you're strangers. He knows better than to – "

"Presumably he knew better than to wander out of the hotel room too. Give us fifteen minutes. If we're not back with your boy, call 'em."

"I need to come with you," Patrice said.

No. It was unfortunate enough there was a kid out there tempting fate. He shook his head and shook her hand off his arm.

"Dean!"

Any arguments either he or Patrice were going to make halted before they formed, when the faint sound of Sam shouting hit their ears. Patrice gasped. Dean ran. It was instinct as much as it was him recognizing the tone in Sam's voice. The sand made running awkward, more difficult than it had to be, and he couldn't quite determine from where Sam's shout had come. He didn't need to know. His brother staggered toward him, a wet bundle in his arms.

"Eddie," Patrice said as she pushed by Dean.

The wet bundle made a squawking noise and wriggled in Sam's hold, hands reached for his mother. His face was white, except two fever-bright spots high on his cheeks. His mop of hair was plastered against his forehead, partly covered his eyes.

"Mom, it was Annabel," Eddie said, sounding miserable and cold, but alive. "It was her."

"Oh, honey, I told you," Patrice whispered. She scooped Eddie from Sam, hugged him close and wrapped her sweater around him. "She's gone."

"No, she wanted to play with me in the water. She said it'd be fun."

Dean focused on Sam, who was pale and shivering himself. His brother pursed his lips and gave Dean a frown. Normally he could peg Sam's frowns and assign meaning. For some reason, he couldn't tell what Sam was saying with this one.

"Sweetheart, no." Over her wet, shivering child, Patrice said, "Annabel's imaginary. I thought he'd outgrown her. Thank you so much."

"Happy to help. Keep an eye on him, huh?" Sam said with a nod.

"I won't let him out of my sight." Patrice smiled nervously, walked backward a few steps. "I … thank you. I have to get back to work and Mr. Edgar here and I need to have a long talk, but, thank you."

Patrice hustled away, pulling Eddie to her even tighter. She wasn't ungrateful. Dean knew that. It was just … people tended to know, whether they knew they knew or not, when things that happened to them were not quite normal. People trusted Sam and Dean, but were wary at the same time. He watched Patrice and Eddie disappear through an open patio door, watched it slide shut so that all he could see was the reflection of grey sky and beach. He turned to Sam.

"You see it?" he asked.

"No, it … no," Sam said. He didn't sound convincing. "It was already in the water. The kid, too."

Dean would have pushed, but Sam stood there with hunched shoulders and shivering visibly. Instinct, again, had him say nothing more but urge Sam toward their own motel.

"Come on, let's get you warmed up. We can do some more research, and still keep an eye on the beach from the room," Dean said.

Sam cast a long look to the ocean, nodded and followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a discordant sort of peace to be found in the waves' violent and repetitive suicide attempts as they dashed against the shore. The waves came rhythmically, a constant ebb and flow, created their own form of music. The caps dissolved into sand, painted the beach and deposited bits of sea grass and driftwood, a masterpiece in the making. It was beautiful here even in the dark of a winter night. He couldn't tear his eyes away, stood at the sliding glass door and watched the water foam blue in the pale moonlight. Sleep would not come to him, so he waited and watched. He didn't mind doing some of the heavy lifting. All things considered, it was only fair. The least he could do was pick up some slack on a hunt.

His mind wandered, as it often did when he was left alone. More often than not, his mind didn't go to happy places. Happy places were few and far between, for him. For both of them, he amended, and glanced at the huddled form beneath a mound of blankets on one of the beds. For them, happiness was a few uninterrupted hours of sleep, and wasn't that one of the most mundane, saddest things ever?

He thought of the boy from earlier that day, the way the little arms and legs flailed at him to let go, as if the boy had _wanted_ to walk straight into the ocean's depths, the fever heat of his forehead, the clammy cold of his hands. After he'd scooped the boy up and brought him out of the water, little Edgar had stretched his arms out over his shoulders and Sam had had to twist and look. He had seen … something. He'd told his brother he hadn't. It had been no more than a flash of white, maybe a hint of smooth skin. He'd blinked, and it was gone from sight but not from his other senses. Not from his head. He couldn't be sure in the end, though, if he'd seen anything at all.

Just at the memory, yearning built up. The feeling he knew, on some level, was not quite right. But then, _he_ was not quite right. He'd understood for a long time that he was not normal, before he was told by others, by people who loved him. He'd known it was true, but he'd hoped. Oh, he'd hoped. Having his freakiness confirmed made it worse, made the looks on his brother's face when he thought they went unnoticed too much, too painful, too real. So those looks, he pretended he never saw them. Sometimes it was easier to pretend there was nothing there.

Behind him, Dean snuffled and shifted on the bed. Sam knew his brother would wake up in an instant at the slightest movement, but the temptation to leave the room was strong. He wanted to be out there, in the open air and moonlight. He wanted to feel the sea spray on his face. Shivering, he crossed his arms and tucked his hands against his body. He scanned the shoreline, knew he was looking for something specific. All of a sudden, he couldn't remember what, but it was important. Standing guard was important. He withdrew a hand from its warm pocket and scrubbed it down his face. He tried to keep his eyes open.

Monster. That was what he was looking for. They were hunting a monster that wasn't him, that wasn't quite the same kind of twisted thing he was. He didn't even know what he was. He thought Dad had known, but hadn't shared. He and Dean, they were going to find out the hard way. Sam blinked. They were not hunting him here, or anyone that might be like him. He had to remember that, always. He didn't know what they were looking for, only that it came from the sea. In his mind's eye, he saw flowing golden hair and a smile just for him. Sam knew in his gut that there would be no monster sighting tonight, but he watched anyway.

From their room, they had a direct line of sight on most of the beach. Dean had reasoned, far too reasonably, that staying inside where it was warm was better than freezing their 'nads off on the off chance their monster lured someone else out in the middle of the night. The likelihood of that was slim – who would go wandering on a beach in a colder climate, in February? Of course, Sam knew the answer to that. Old Walter Collins had left his room in the assisted living facility in Depoe Bay and traipsed away. No one knew where he'd ended up, except Sam knew something in the sea had swallowed him.

Sam also knew who it would try to swallow next. He'd seen her, before, he was certain of it now. He'd felt her presence. He missed her, more than he had in a long time. He knew he would be with her again, soon. He now found himself dwelling on the past, things he could never have, had never even had a real chance at anyway. He saw a bright smile and eyes full of love. Maybe there was a way to get what he always wanted. He kept his attention on the rolling waves, felt lulled by them.

Minutes turned to hours, hours to the whole night. The sun never broke to signify dawn. There were no bursts of pink and orange, simply a gradual dissipation of black to a degree of grey. All there was here were degrees of grey. He pressed his forehead against the sliding glass door, three spots of fog appearing at every exhalation. Two smaller, one larger, together they formed a ghostly mask that stared back at him.

"No sign of Sigmund, huh?" Dean asked.

Sam twisted to look at his brother, who stared at him blearily, already up and dressed and at the maker brewing a pot of crappy motel coffee. He didn't know how that happened. His brain felt foggy. His heart sped up, panic.

"Uh," he said. "No."

"We know it's out there somewhere. You think maybe the aborted kill yesterday was enough to move it up coast?"

No, Sam didn't think that. He also didn't think of Edgar as the aborted kill. He was a hunter now. It was what he did, who he was. But Edgar was a little boy with the flu, a person. Sam chewed his lip for a second, didn't answer Dean's question. There were a few joggers running up the beach now, bundled head to toe in dark clothing. He felt like they couldn't stop surveilling, even though he knew it was pointless. He knew. The knowledge burrowed under his skin and built a nest. It itched, a constant sensation in his brain.

"Watch while I go get cleaned up," Sam said.

"Give me five minutes to snag breakfast and some actual coffee first, not that piss in a pot. I'll get you the junior plate to go."

It wasn't a question. Dean had his jacket on and was out the door as he said the word plate. Sam's stomach felt uneasy, the kind of unsettled that he couldn't tell between hunger and upset. He rubbed it absently, watched a gender-indeterminate person toss a stick and a sweet mottled grey and black mutt tear after it. It reminded him that out there was normal. In here, in his own head, was not. He knew Dean thought he was being gung ho about hunting these days as some sort of homage to Dad, but his intentions weren't so noble. There needed to be balance, and if he couldn't come by it naturally, he'd try to make it. Hunt evil things to keep him from being evil.

Of course, it didn't work that way no matter how much Sam wanted it to.

When he saw Dean approaching with breakfast and his cell phone at his ear, Sam gave up his post. He wanted to make sure the connection between previous victims was more than just in his head. He needed to concentrate on something solid, something he knew was real. He wasn't sure it was important; none of the many water cryptids or spirits seemed to have this particular MO. He knew better than anyone that common knowledge was flawed. Survivors of supernatural experiences often got things confused, possibly a defense mechanism to keep them from going nuts. Even the detailed journals hunters kept had gaps.

The thread, now Sam knew to look for it, was glaring. He hadn't had to look past the obituaries.

"Yeah, okay, hold on," Dean said as he entered. "I'm back now, I'll put you on speaker."

"_Good, I didn't want to go through this twice,_" Bobby's no-nonsense voice broadcast from Dean's phone.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean plopped the food on top of the files Sam had spread open, and set the phone next to it. "We're both here now."

"_Well, I've got good news and bad news. Something cropped up that I think is relevant to this hunt of yours._" Papers rustled in the background. "_I don't suppose you two watched the news last night._"

"We were busy."

"_Yesterday, the Portland medical examiner's office identified remains that washed ashore after the disappearance in Tillamook. Part of a liver, one lung, some intestines. DNA matched one Ellis Parker, the victim._" Bobby let out a long breath. "_The other victims' body parts probably didn't make it to shore._"

Something clicked in Sam's head. He flipped the laptop open and pulled up their list of suspects and cringed.

"So the good news is the bad news," he said.

"_Got it in one,_" Bobby said. "_I cannot stress to you how important it is you be careful, boys._"

"One of you want to clue me in here?" Dean asked around a mouthful of something full of strawberries and whipped cream.

"_You're dealing with an each uisge._"

"Gesundheit."

"_This is no joking matter, you idjit. Each uisges are nasty pieces of work. Once one gets its hands on a person, they're stuck like glue. It drags its victims to the depths and tears them apart, but obviously doesn't go for the internal organs so much. Strictly flesh._"

Sam slid the laptop for Dean to see for himself. He stood and went to the glass doors, stared at the water again. Deep within, the urge to leave the room was growing. She was out there, waiting. He took a breath instead, turned back to the phone.

"Bobby, is there anything in the lore that makes it select certain people?" he asked.

"_What do you mean?_"

"Like, how a vengeful spirit sometimes has a type of person they target. I couldn't find anything to suggest it in the lore, but …"

The smell of syrup and sausage nauseated him all of a sudden. He cracked the sliding door open a notch, breathed in the briny air. Sam wanted to walk to the beach. He wasn't sure how long he could resist, and he couldn't not tell Dean and Bobby what he knew.

"But what?" The talk of flesh eating and gore hadn't put a damper on Dean's appetite, but Sam's unfinished thought made him drop his fully loaded fork into the cardboard take-out box. "Sam?"

"_Spit it out, kid,_" Bobby said.

He shut the door, turned to look toward his brother but not at him.

"It's just … okay, so each of the victims had all lost someone they loved to tragedy at some point." Sam stared bleakly at Dean, then, before he flicked his gaze at the ocean for the millionth time, searched for a glimpse of blonde hair. "Even the little boy yesterday with his imaginary friend, for all we know. The girl in Florence – her boyfriend was killed in a car accident this past summer. The old man lost his wife to ovarian cancer thirty years ago. The banker lost his boyfriend to a hate crime and only moved out here to get away from the memory."

"Lots of people lose people they love," Dean said, in denial mode already. "What's it got to do with anything?"

"Look, _each uisge_ means water horse. It used to take the shape of a horse, and hundreds of years ago that would have been a much more effective method of capturing its prey. Before cars and planes and you know. It wouldn't have been uncommon to come across a horse on a road."

"_I see where you're going with this,_" Bobby cut in, sounding all kinds of unhappy. "_It's had to adapt to survive. Makes some sorta sense, I guess. That's evolution in action for you; even monsters can't fight it._"

"Wait a minute."

Dean stood and stalked over to Sam, grabbed his arm and spun him so they were face to face. He looked pissed and sad and worried all at the same time, a look so unique to him it almost broke Sam's heart sometimes that he was the one to put it there.

"You think you can get the thing to go for you next," Dean said. "That's what this is about. You want to be bait, is that it?"

"No, Dean, I … it's not that I want to. It makes sense, though."

"It makes as much sense for me to be bait. You don't corner the market on losing people, Sam." Dean's eyes widened and he clamped his mouth shut, had obviously said more than he intended. He rubbed a hand down his face, across his mouth and exhaled loudly. "No. Forget it. You're not doing it."

The problem, Sam thought, was twofold. First, he didn't respond well to absolutes like that and Dean knew it. Second, he more than thought he already was the bait. He struggled to find a way to mention that, saved by Bobby clearing his throat.

"_It don't matter which of you it is. If you can't think of another way to lure this thing out, then you gotta do what you gotta do. Better you than a civilian, right? Whatever you come up with, just do it careful,_" Bobby said. "_It ain't gonna be easy. If the thing touches you, either of you, you're as good as glued to it. If it touches you both, you're both screwed six ways to Sunday._"

"You're so uplifting, Bobby," Dean grumbled. He glared at Sam. "This isn't over, Sam."

"Dean – "

"_Boys. Focus now, bicker later._"

"I don't suppose you have any helpful hints on killing this ech-ooshkya thing."

"_I'm not your fairy godmother, boy. I've never hunted one of these bastards._" Bobby huffed, and the sound of pages turning came over the phone. "_Looks like most of the lore suggests you can stab it to death. Pretty standard. It's a physical being, you can kill it._"

"Oh, we'll kill it."

"_First successful kill was supposed to be hooks a blacksmith forged and heated red-hot. Not sayin' you have to do that, but I do think you're going to have one shot at this, so make it count. I'd recommend using iron, just to be on the safe side. Call me to let me know you haven't gotten yourselves killed._"

With that, Bobby hung up. In a way, Sam was relieved. He knew Bobby cared, in his gruff, understated way. It also meant he only had to confess to Dean, which would be … not easier. Definitely not that, given the glower on Dean's face at the moment. Sam looked at the water, wished he could smell Jessica's neck, her hair. If he tried hard enough, he thought maybe he could. He reached for the handle, kept it there but didn't pull the door open.

"You're not doing this, Sam. I don't even know why you're thinking it. You're not going to walk out there like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter."

Sam didn't completely know why he was thinking it either, but there he was, longing for a touch he knew was impossible but also knew was completely possible. It didn't make sense. It was becoming more difficult to know which was truth, even standing there next to the only actual true thing he'd ever known in his life. He needed Dean to stay true.

"Dean," Sam said, "I think I already am."

"What?"

"I wasn't sure, before." Sam had to force himself to go deeper into the room. He went to the table, flipped open the box meant for him and wrinkled his nose. There was no faking appetite. "Yesterday, I mean. In the water. I think it, when I pulled Eddie from the water … I think it's already me."

"Wait, wait, wait," Dean said. "Hold up. What are you talking about?"

"Dean, I keep having these urges to go out there. To the beach. All night, I had to force myself to stay inside. _I want to leave right now._"

"So now you're saying you think it's got mind control too? Fantastic. This is great. No, really, I'm glad you finally decided to tell me this thing whammied you _yesterday_, even though you know for damn sure you should have mentioned it then."

"I didn't know, Dean," Sam said softly. "At least, I wasn't sure. But I keep thinking about her. Ever since I saw her yesterday…"

"Who? Saw who?"

"Jess."

To that, Dean didn't have a thing to say. He simply clenched his jaw so tightly he might have cracked a few teeth and looked angrier than ever.

"I didn't ask for this, you know," Sam said after a beat. His voice was distant, not quite right, and he knew it. "Not any of it."

Dean's head snapped his direction at that, and Sam could see in his eyes that he knew what Sam was actually saying. His whole life, he'd felt like he'd had a target on his back, felt out of step with Dad and Dean. Now he knew why. Now he knew why it sometimes felt like the monsters they hunted honed in on him, even though he was sure that his father and brother had seen just as much of that as he ever had. Now he knew how wrong he was on the inside, so it made total sense the _each usige_ would find his pain and exploit it.

"I know that, Sam. Don't you think I do?" Dean let out a bitter laugh. "Our lives, man. They're so fucked, and near as I can figure none of it's our fault."

"Yeah."

Dean moved back to his strawberry filled whatevers, pushed them around the box with his plastic fork for a moment before he threw it down.

"Okay. Forget all that. Can you describe what it feels like when the urges hit you to, you know, toss yourself into the ocean? Maybe we can interrupt them somehow."

"I dunno, Dean. It's like I'm in there, but I'm not driving. I know exactly why I shouldn't follow them." Sam stood and walked to the door, stared out. His face looked wrong. He ran his fingers through his hair. "At some point, I don't think I'm going to have any control over it. I'll go. I know I will, it's just a matter of time."

"That's why I'm here," Dean said. "I'll chain you to the damned pipes if it'll keep you from wandering away."

"Dean, it doesn't…" Sam drifted off and looked at his brother sadly. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Great. While you do that, I'll see if I can come up with a way to gank this thing without putting you in mortal danger."

"Dean."

"Go, Sam." Dean waved his hand. "And you're eating some damned breakfast after that."

Sam nodded in acquiescence, though the food wasn't happening. He felt chilled and weary, and at the very least a shower would help with one of those things. He hoped it would ground him a bit as well. He stared at the grey skies through the glass doors, heard the splashing waves and needed to drown it all out. He spun and made his way quickly to the bathroom, locked the door and started the shower. When steam began billowing out of it, fogging the mirror, he stripped off his clothes and stepped under the hot stream.

He knew it was a mistake the second his muscles, including his brain, started to relax. It was the strangest thing, being able to feel his thoughts fogging over just like the mirror. He wanted to reach his virtual hand up and swipe away a spot of clarity, but he couldn't. Sam remembered sharing showers with Jess. He closed his eyes and heard her. Felt her. She was close. He wanted to see her again. Had to.

"Jess," he whispered.

The cool air made gooseflesh break out and the damp sand beneath his feet startled him. Dully, Sam looked down. He was naked, outside, and that was wrong but she was there. He saw her, at the water's edge. She waited for him, a hand outstretched. They were meant to be together forever, nothing could prevent it. Not angels or demons or death, and that, no, no, but yes. He needed to go be with her.

"Sam," someone said, from far, far away.

He turned, on instinct, only to be met with a face that was not Jessica's and a fist that sent him to oblivion.

* * *

Dean wouldn't have thought it possible, but he hated Oregon more today than he had yesterday. That pit in his gut, the one Dad had put there the second he'd dumped an unreasonable, inexplicable burden on him, had faded a little after he'd broken down and told Sam the news. Being told that chances were he'd have to commit fratricide were good wasn't the kind of thing that would disappear on its own, after all. Now, though, it was back, bigger and colder than ever. His job of keeping Sam safe was difficult enough without his brother going off on a suicide run.

To say Dean was freaked was an understatement. From his spot by the glass doors, he stared at Sam for a second. His brother had been out for hours, most of the day, and far longer than Dean's fist to his jaw should have caused. He was grateful for it, though. Unconsciousness seemed to prevent whatever the hell it was that had gotten Sam outside from happening. As far as he was concerned, Sam could stay asleep all night. Somehow, he doubted he'd be so lucky. He scanned the beach in the ever-darkening daylight for signs of their monster and saw nothing. He wondered what, if anything, Sam had seen this morning.

Truthfully, he hadn't quite understood what Sam meant by the _each uisge_'s influence even as his brother had tried to explain it. Seeing it firsthand brought Dean up to speed in a heartbeat and, well, scared the everloving shit out of him. His heart pounded a little faster just remembering it, and he regretted thinking Sam was perfectly safe in the shower and going to the car for weapons.

At the root of it was Sam, under some other influence. It was terrifying. To see Sam so outside of his own control, soaking wet and naked as the day he was born with eyes only for the water, had brought Dean back around to what Dad had told him. It all came back to that goddamned thing and with all of this unplanned time alone, it ran through his head a million times. _Don't worry, Dean,_ Dad had said, as if that were even remotely possible given the circumstances. He supposed it was meant to be a declaration of faith in Dean's ability to save Sam. It was faith he didn't deserve.

The pressure felt physical, pushed at his shoulders and his heart and he was so tired. It felt like this hunt was a dry run, even if it wasn't an exact match. Save Sam, or watch him die. The only difference was that Dean wouldn't be the one to have to pull the trigger here; he'd kill Sam by failing to protect him only. Like there was an only about it. Dean scowled and ran a hand through his hair. If he lost Sam, he'd be alone with the guilt of Dad's sacrifice and Sam's loss and just the thought of it was too much for him to take at the moment. He wasn't ready to face the idea of life without his brother, without anything at all. He felt like their lives were on timers, and Dad had been the one to start it counting down. So, yeah, scared and tired and fucking angry seemed about right.

"Mmph."

Sam moved on the bed, his feet and hands shifted under the sheet as if looking for purchase. One moment he had his eyes closed, the next he appeared wide awake. The sheet fell away when he sat bolt upright, one leg over the edge of the bed and a foot on the floor.

"Whoa," Dean said, across the room in two long steps. "Sam, hey."

For one horrible moment, the blankness on Sam's face was exactly as it had been hours ago. He didn't look at Dean, he looked past him to the beach, though there was no recognition in his eyes even for that. As frustrating as Sam was at times, Dean didn't actually enjoy concussing the guy to keep him from doing something worse to himself. He'd do it, though, he'd punch Sam's lights out again and he'd keep on doing it until he stabbed the _each uisge_ to death with every sharp implement he could get his hands on. He had his hand balled in a fist, but then Sam gave a full-body shiver and looked left, right and front.

"What?" Sam asked. "Whu…?"

"You with me?" Dean leaned closer, put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Hey, stay with me here."

"Dean?" Sam blinked a few times, intelligence coming slowly into his eyes. "My head hurts and it's cold."

"Yeah, you might have had a little run in with my fist earlier," Dean said, with a laugh he couldn't quite make sound like a laugh at all. When Sam looked at him with wide eyes, he lifted the hand from his brother's shoulder and held it palm out. "You were in la-la land. Had to do it. As for being cold, maybe it'd help if you put that thing away."

"Put wha …?" Sam glanced down then, turned bright red and grabbed a pillow to shove over his lap. "Jeez."

Dean took no pleasure in bringing Sam up to speed as he dressed, limbs sluggish and shaky at the same time. For a good few minutes, Sam stared down at his bare feet as he absorbed the story, as if he couldn't quite grasp what he must have looked like all space cadet. Truth be told, Sam continued to look all space cadet, a fact that worried at Dean's gut. What also worried him was that he hadn't been able to find one damned alternative to Sam playing bait that didn't involve literally chaining him up to keep him safe. He'd been half kidding about that before, but now. Now he had chains at the ready and told Sam exactly that.

"Dean, no," Sam said. He fiddled with the sock in his hands for a second, before bringing his right foot across his left knee and pulling it on. "It … no."

"We keep you from going to it. It comes to us, and it's an easier kill to control. So why the hell not, Sam, huh?"

"Because."

Sam again looked beyond him at the water, as if even now he were being beckoned to it. He probably was. He definitely was. Being face to face with it, Dean now knew what it looked like, and it wasn't good. That yearning for happiness was an illusion, like it always was. He had to make Sam see it.

"Because hasn't been a valid reason since you were five," Dean said, unwilling to let this go. He couldn't. Sam couldn't have any idea how much Dean just could not relent.

"Dean, listen to me while I can still … "

Sam's eyes went unfocused, almost crossed, for a moment and he tilted his head, like he was already hearing something only meant for him. If it had been strong in the morning, it would only get worse at night. Two out of three disappearances had happened at night, that was one thing Dean had been able to learn while Sam was out. He watched his brother carefully as he shook himself out of the trance before Dean had to do it for him. He cleared his throat and looked dazed, stupidly young.

"If I don't do this, it won't come to me. It'll go after the boy again. I know that in my gut. He's just a kid. We cannot let a child be put in danger when there's another option."

Dean knew Sam was right. He'd spent nearly every second of the day watching out for the _each uisge_ himself. He'd also spent all day watching for anyone like little Edgar wandering off in the same kind of stupor Sam had been in. And that Sam was still in the grips of that stupor meant everyone else should be safe. His conscience could barely take all the crap it had to deal with on a regular day, and Sam was right.

"Dean," Sam said and then sighed. "I think eventually you're just going to have to let me go."

Dean had a horrible feeling Sam wasn't talking about the here and now anymore and this was not the time for it.

"Shit," was the only acknowledgement Dean was interested in giving _that_.

The plan seemed obvious after that, and inevitable. Dean hated it. It sucked. He hadn't been able to offer anything else, and so he sat three hours later, alone and waiting.

He stabbed one of the cast iron pokers into the flames he was stoking in the motel's beachside fire pit, something the night auditor had made a point of mentioning usually only got used during high tourist season, and waited. It wasn't ideal being out in the open like this, but building an unregulated fire on the beach would only call even more attention and he sure as hell didn't want to risk the weapons not working if unheated. So sit and wait were the only things to do, until it was time.

Dean eyeballed the distance between himself and the route Sam was most likely to take, clocked it in his head. The timing would have to be pretty much perfect. He could not let the thing get close enough to Sam to touch him and he also could not count on Sam to help prevent that. He shivered. It wasn't entirely due to cold, but he hunkered down and leaned into the fire. He itched with the need for this to be over. He had no idea how long he'd been out here already, how much longer he might have to sit before anything happened. His chest felt tight, uncomfortable as the day's worries dogpiled on him.

He saw the _each uisge_ before he saw Sam. It came from the water slowly, didn't venture deep on to the beach. The mental control must have made the hunt so much easier. He hoped that meant it would be easier to kill as well. Dean straightened, hands reached blindly for both of the fire pokers they'd stolen from the large fireplace in the lobby of a more upscale hotel down the beach. His proximity to the fire hampered his vision a little, too bright against the dark backdrop, but from a distance the creature didn't look like much. For one thing, it looked absolutely nothing like Jessica Moore. It didn't look even a little human and for a brief flash Dean wondered if it would be able to whammy him before he could get to it and make him see Dad or Mom, or if that undocumented trait had to be focused on the victim to work.

That was something he should have considered before the fucking zero hour, but it was too late. He wasn't going to get compromised because it simply wasn't an option. Dean pulled his weapons out of the fire, saw out of the corner of his eye that they glowed orange and hot. They'd cut through the monster like it was butter, and that part of him that used to thrill at the hunt rekindled. The temptation to rush ahead was strong, but he had to wait until Sam was far enough out to prevent drawing attention to them. Sam hadn't made an appearance yet. Dean hesitated, gloved hands clenching around the hot iron pokers.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to extin … "

Bill the night auditor's voice pulled Dean's attention, and a beat after that the horrified look on the guy's face was the first in a series of events that would only lead to clusterfuck in a hurry. Dean focused on Bill, lost sight of the _each uisge_ as he tried to look harmless. Judging from the way Bill pretty much pissed himself, it didn't work.

"W-what the hell? What are you doing with those?"

The fiery glow was rapidly bleeding out of the iron, but Dean knew they'd retain the heat for several minutes.

"Go back inside, Bill. I'm just going to brand some driftwood, okay? It's … art. Part of the process," Dean said. Off to the side, he thought he saw a Sam-sized shadow. "You know us artists."

Bill took a stumbling step. Dean didn't wait around to see what Bill would or wouldn't do. He didn't want witnesses for what was going to seem very much like murder, but it was that or let Sam … shit, where was his brother? Dean sought the place the _each uisge_ had emerged and it wasn't there. For a fraction of a second, panic stabbed through him as if he'd tripped onto the weapons he held. In the dim moonlight, he couldn't see well, but the beach was empty except for two shapes a good quarter of a mile up toward a large haystack rock a couple hundred feet offshore. He bit back Sam's name, already on his lips, and ran.

The sand made it impossible to move as fast as he needed to go. His movements felt hindered, wrong, as the wind cut through him and the sting of salty air made his eyes and lungs burn. The closer he got, the more those things threatened to keep him from saving Sam and he knew it was mostly adrenaline and panic. He saw Sam's lips moving, saying a name Dean didn't have to hear, and a hand was outstretched. The monster crept backward into the surf inch by inch, and rage took over for the panic. Sam was not dying on his watch. Not tonight, not ever. He was fifteen steps away when Sam gave a sudden lurch and his hand caught the monster, stuck there.

"No, Sam," Dean shouted at the top of his lungs and pushed himself to move faster. "Sammy."

Sam didn't respond, but the _each uisge_ reacted to Dean's yell. Unfortunately, that reaction was to pull Sam with frightening speed into the water. They were waist deep before Dean got there, pokers up and ready, but he didn't have a clear line. Sam and the monster were too tangled and it was too dark and the split second of hesitation cost Dean. Sam screamed, as large, horsey teeth clamped into the bared skin at the base of his neck and shoulder. In one heartbeat, Dean saw Sam look straight at him, completely himself.

Completely ready to fight. Despite being glued to the thing, gnawed on, Sam bucked hard enough to shake it away. It only gave Dean half a second, tops, but he went for it. Both pokers, still warm but not hot, sliced into the beast.

Black blood spurted out of it and the _each uisge_ howled its pain and anger. It thrashed, did not let go of Sam as it went under.

Dean followed, no hesitation that time. The saltwater stung his eyes, and it was dark as pitch. Though he was right on top of them, he couldn't see what was Sam and what was the monster until a warm hand latched onto him. Dean acted on instinct. He dropped the poker in his left hand, grabbed Sam and pulled with all his might while he jammed his right hand forward. He hit flesh, yanked back and thrust it in again and again, but then Sam's hand weakly flapped against him and his priorities righted. Sam. Save Sam. Get Sam out of the damned water.

He didn't know if it was because the thing was dead, but Sam came free easily. They were only shoulder deep in the water, and Dean struggled to get his feet under him. He finally did, and it was then he noticed how limp Sam was. It spurred him, or must have, because the next thing he knew, he and Sam were sprawled wet and shivering on the sand. Dean choked and spluttered, shook Sam's shoulder harshly and was rewarded with the most beautiful hacking cough he'd ever heard in this life.

"What was that?"

Bill stood above him, face ghostly white and eyes huge beneath his glasses. Dean shook his head.

"You don't want to know, man," he said.

"Okay, sure." Bill chewed his lip for a second, if anything growing paler. "It's why so many people have gone missing this winter, isn't it?"

"You're pretty smart there, Billy. Yeah, people should be safe now." Dean squinted at the wound on Sam's neck. "Help me get him back to our room?"

"Yeah, okay."

He and unexpected ally Bill half carried Sam to their room and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. Bill scurried away without waiting for any explanation. Dean was grateful for that, and he was grateful the guy hadn't called the cops. Yet. Sometime between stripping himself and then Sam out of most of their clothes and tending to the ugly bite on Sam's neck – dodged a fucking bullet with that, it didn't hit any major blood lines – and tucking Sam under blankets, Bill brought them microwave bowls of ramen. It was the thought that counted. Sometimes people ran from things they didn't understand. Sometimes they made awkward gestures with bad soup.

Exhausted, Dean aimed for his own bed only when he was absolutely sure Sam was okay and not going anywhere (for now). His head had barely hit the pillow when the bundle of blankets that was his brother moved.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Sammy."

"She seemed so real," Sam said. His voice was small and weak, but it was real. He was all Sam, heartbroken all over again. "I miss her."

"I know you do, but it wasn't her."

"Deep down, I know that. But it still hurts like she just died yesterday." Sam shifted, hissed in discomfort. "And t-thanks for not letting me go down tonight."

Dean bit his lip, stared at the ceiling. Thanks weren't what he wanted or needed.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times," Dean said after a moment. "As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you."

Dean wished he could believe that himself. As he drifted to sleep his last conscious thought was the hope for no dreams in which he put a bullet in his own brother.


End file.
